


New Bones

by Quente



Series: En el sol [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen, NHL RPF, New York Rangers, Pre-Slash, Tampa Bay Lightning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 19:40:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2633816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quente/pseuds/Quente
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steven’s leg is bothering him, an ache that he rubs with both hands. He stares up at the reporter, though, and once again finds it in himself to answer honestly. “Yeah. The day I returned from my injury was the day Marty got traded, so we never really had that final game together where you knew it was coming.”</p><p>Or, Stammer is about to see Marty, and he'd be lying if he said it didn't hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Bones

**Author's Note:**

> Written in (angst and) honor of the first game between the Bolts and Rangers since Marty was traded for Cally. Some canon mentioned in this can be found [here](http://www.nhl.com/ice/news.htm?id=739606&navid=DL%7CNHL%7Chome), [here](http://sports.yahoo.com/news/one-year-after-brutal-injury--steven-stamkos-says-he--may-never--be-quite-the-same-162339205-nhl.html), [here](http://espn.go.com/new-york/nhl/story/_/id/10555364/martin-st-louis-traded-new-york-rangers-tampa-bay-lightning), and [fake third jersey story here](http://video.lightning.nhl.com/videocenter/console?id=633714).

There is a beach in St. Petersburg where Marty used to take him. Steven is there now, his toes deep in the soft sand, butt planted against a rock. Nobody else is there. The beach is mostly useless, really -- it's swampy around the edges, the waves too soft for surfing. The only company he has are the swamp birds, tilting their heads in his direction, wings twitching as they eye him up. 

He's got days before he goes to New York. Between then and now are plenty of games, but that's the one he's got circled on his calendar. So many ridiculous anniversaries are surfacing at this time of year -- the anniversary of his broken tibia just the week before -- but the memory that sticks most is the one where Marty holds him on this beach, arm warm around him as Steven cried out his frustration.

It was the first time Steven admitted his despair to anyone, the first time anyone wanted something from him other than the company line. _I'll rehab hard, and when the time comes, I know they'll make the best decision for the Canadian team._

A year later, Steven's got the Sochi gold medal ring. They gave it to him in Canada a few weeks back, in honor of the work he did in Olympics camp, no matter that he didn't play in the matches. The only thing that takes the bitter sting away from the memory is that Marty went in his place. 

Without meaning to, Steven's fingers hit his shirt right over where the C goes, nails digging in a little. He's silent for a long moment. The time for tears has past, and now there's nothing but the insistent now-now-now of the season. He's a little surprised at the resolve he feels, when he thought he'd feel the tenderness of a scar that's only healed on the surface.

The sound of the waves hitting the grassy inlet eases him. 

In a week Steven will be on a different island, and he'll be doing what he does best. He hasn't been scoring as much as he'd like, and (Steven admits to the sky, the water, the birds) the part of him that loves the quick heat of Marty's attention kind of wants the showiest hat trick ever in the Garden. Steven has stared down Lundqvist before, but he wants to work him over, make him sweat and cry each time Steven's puck goes through his five-hole. 

Steven wants to make the Garden thunderously quiet with the sound of each one of his goals. He wants Marty's eyes on him again, wry and annoyed and proud all at once. Marty helped make Steven who he is, and Steven's never had as much chemistry with a linemate since.

A long-necked bird squawks at him, a piercing cry that wakes him from his daze, and Steven sighs. A year ago, Marty helped him hobble to this very rock, his leg bound in a hard plastic frame. Steven remembers leaning down onto the smaller man, willing away his tears until Marty's voice in his ear urged them out.

"Stammer, it truly does suck. You don't have to pretend any different. It sucks, so just cry."

The warm arm and rough voice worked, and the tears came.

~

Several days later, they are on the ice in Brandon, the chill of the rink a strange contrast to the warmth of the outside air. The new kids from the north always look shell-shocked by the sun, their outfits far warmer than they need to be for a November day in the south, but before long they know to come in their shorts and sandals before hitting the ice.

Tyler’s there already, dressed and scrolling through something on his iPad. Cally’s next to him, leaning over him curiously.

“What’s that, Johnny?”

“Uh.” Tyler’s expression is sheepish, lip caught in his teeth for a moment. “It’s actually press, so, I dunno if you want to know.”

“Is it about how I broke my leg?” Steven butts in, his voice dry. “Or is it about the trade? Marty, Cally, Stralzy, Boyle?”

“Uh, yeah, all of the above.”

Callahan snorts, shaking his head as he turns to slide a jersey over his head, the blue and white of Tampa catching on his underarmor. “The press likes to stir shit up that’s no longer an issue.” Cally’s voice is certain, tough.

Tyler shifts his eyes thoughtfully to Steven, though. They share an interest in medicine, Steven from the perspective of training, and Tyler because once upon a time, he thought his size would keep him from playing professionally.

“I care less about the trade than I do about Mister Tibia over here.”

Steven cuffs Tyler’s head lightly. “Please do not nickname me after that particular injury.”

“Fair enough,” Tyler chuckles. He’d seen the x-rays the year previous, pouring over them with as much grizzly interest as Steven had. “The article says you can still feel it, that it still hurts.” It is less of a question than a quiet statement, but it causes Steven to stop and consider it.

Tyler is not a whiner. As a smaller man, maybe that’s what’s kept him in the league for so long. Even the rib-check that drove him out of the Blackhawks game for a period wasn’t enough to stop him from coming back the next game and scoring, and all he’d said about it was, “It was just a play in the heat of the moment.” … So when Tyler asks, Steven gives his question due consideration.

“Actually...it’s more like what _else_ is in me. I’d never thought about how you can feel every single one of your bones until I got a new one. Now I can feel it like something extra in my body. I can feel around it, but it’s not the same as the bones I already had. And it’ll never be the same.”

The locker room’s quiet after that, and Steven wonders if he’s broken the cardinal rule of hockey and actually whined. But the looks he gets when he glances surreptitiously around are of comprehension, understanding, a shared pain. Perhaps it’s true, though; when one guy goes down, it impacts the rest. If anyone knew what it felt like to be impacted by Steven’s leg, it was his team.

“Don’t worry,” Callahan cuts in cheerfully, “If your leg gives out, we’ve got at least three guys in the Crunch who’re ready to take your place.”

Everyone laughs at that, including Steven -- the ridiculous depth that Yzerman’s been building is a secret to no one, and it gives their younger players a necessary hint of desperation. “I bet they’d like my salary off their cap,” he snorts. Another part of being in the weird meritocracy of an NHL team is that everyone’s salary, much like their choice in tape brand or pre-game meal, is common knowledge.

The chuckles erupt, and soon they’re talking about Syracuse, what it would be like to play in the AHL for a day. There’s a bit of longing from the veterans for simpler times, when the goaltenders aren’t quite as elite, and game scores are higher than a digit.

Tyler comes up to him before they skate out, though. Even in skates, he rises to just a touch past Steven’s shoulder, and something about Tyler’s tough disregard for his stature reminds him entirely of Marty.

“If it bugs you -- I’m not saying you should complain or anything. But. ...I’ve taken classes, and I know something like that is a lifetime thing. If it makes you feel better to admit it sometimes, Cap, you can admit it to me.” Tyler is staring past Steven at the ground with the embarrassment of showing actual feelings, and Steven gets it. 

“That’s sweet,” Steven says, shaking his head, smiling just a little. “I appreciate it, I do. Now get your ass out on the ice.”

~

Finally it’s travel day. They’ve beaten the Islanders soundly, and Steven knows that the game was basically a dress rehearsal. The real thing is coming up, and everyone’s nerves are singing with it. They’re on the plane, suit jackets hung, ties loosened.

In front of him, Steven can hear Brian talking quietly to Cally, Anton leaning in across the aisle.

“You will be ok, Cally?” Anton’s English is careful, as quiet as the big guy can make it.

Steven waits to hear the answer, feeling the emotion build even as the plane makes a sideways turn and begins to taxi. Along the runway, palm tree after palm tree whizzes by like the rows on their fake third jerseys.

Finally, a sigh and a shrug. “Shit happens. I’ve moved on.”

Steven lets out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding, relaxing back into his seat.

In the row next to Steven, Tyler and Ondrej are sharing earbuds, leaning in to watch something on the ever-present iPad. Steven can see that it’s footage, Rangers from their strange loss to the Penguins on a shootout goal that went in, and then was disallowed.

“Let’s not take it to a shootout tomorrow, okay?” Ondrej says, shaking his head at the screen.

“We’re not giving them a single point,” Callahan says, his voice absolutely firm from the row in front of them.

Steven is grateful for the firmness. The part of him that wants to show off again for Marty kind of wants Marty to show off for him, too. 

More than that, he wants to feel Marty pass to his stick again, the feeling of Marty’s energy shooting across the ice to connect to him, as solid as the puck.

Then there are fingers lightly on his arm, a touch from his seatmate. It’s almost as though Val is reading his mind -- and he could be, solid winger that he is. The lilt of Val’s voice is in his ear.

“If you start passing to Marty instead of me, I will never let you forget about it.”

Steven grins, shooting Valtteri a sheepish look. “You’re too tall to mistake for Marty, anyway. Johnny over there, though…”

“Fuck you, I’m five inches taller,” Tyler says, almost as if it’s automatic, glaring past Palat’s heft in the seat beside him.

“It’s probably good you are not on the same line, then,” Val chuckles, giving Steven’s arm another squeeze.

“Yeah. Thanks, buddy. I know which side my bread is buttered.” Steven gives Val’s hand a pat and leans back as the plane goes faster and faster for takeoff, flying them up north, toward Marty and away from home.

~

Nobody lets him forget about it. It’s as though the hockey world is remembering it with him, and Steven wonders just how many people are crawling around in his emotions.

After morning skate, a familiar enough ritual that it helps calm him down, the flock of reporters (far more than usual, but Steven knows it’s because the schedule is shockingly light this night) gather round him with their mics and recorders. Farther down the row, Steven hears Cally getting as many questions as he is.

“Did you hear that Marty said he hopes he doesn’t accidentally pass you the puck?” Morreale from the NHL asks, leaning in with his recorder.

It surprises a laugh out of Steven, and he answers more honestly than he was going to. “I hope he does, it’s been a while since I got a pass from him.”

“You guys never had a final game together,” Morreale says. “You were out on injury when the trade happened, right?”

Steven’s leg is bothering him, an ache that he rubs with both hands. He stares up at the reporter, though, and once again finds it in himself to answer honestly. “Yeah. The day I returned from my injury was the day Marty got traded, so we never really had that final game together where you knew it was coming.”

That makes everyone fall silent for a moment, as if they can feel it as plainly as Steven can, that sometimes in life, things go unresolved.

“It was tough when it happened.” Steven says quietly, staring down at his leg. The silence continues, and he realizes he’s got to toe the company line. “But! I think we've done a good job of moving on and getting past it, bringing in new guys and a good young core. We have a good thing going on here in Tampa…”

The usual shit. But the reporters seem a little kinder and quieter, and before they go, Steven gets a lot of Good lucks, even from the New Yorkers.

After they’re gone, Cally comes and flops beside him, sweat trickling from his forehead. 

“I can’t fucking wait for this game to be over.”

“I hear you, buddy.”

~

It’s 7:05 PM on the East Coast, and the Garden is shaking with the noise of the fans.

Steven’s on the ice heading toward the faceoff circle, Val and Cally circling into position, silent and intent beside him.

When he looks up to see who’s opposite, Steven rolls his eyes the barest amount.

There he is.

Marty’s eyes drill into Steven’s, and for a moment, both of them are gamefaced and fierce.

And then, as they crouch, Marty gives him the barest wink.

Oh, it’s _on_.


End file.
